After the Fall
by truemizzie
Summary: Sherlock falls.  John finds his way back up.  And then, one day, a surprise visitor makes everything okay again.  Based on the original stories, set in the BBC universe.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_This is just my version of what happens after The Fall, before it comes out on TV. Enjoy!_

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><p>When John woke up, Mrs. Hudson had already gone. He leaned forward out of the uncomfortable hospital waiting room seat and peeked side to side, looking for an indication of where she had gone. Lestrade had left before, on the search for Moriarty.<p>

_ Strange of Mrs. Hudson not to leave a note._

He would have assumed that she had simply stepped out for a drink from the vending machines on the floor below, if he hadn't heard a familiar voice answering him.

"I had the Detective Inspector take your landlady home." Mycroft Holmes was sitting opposite John. There was no telling how long he'd been there. The two men were alone in the waiting room.

"Has the doctor come out yet?" John asked, still groggy.

"It...is finished." This answer jolted John awake, and he stood.

"Can I see him?" He was already walking towards the door. Mycroft stood after him.

"I am afraid it is too late for that, Doctor Watson."

John's eyes narrowed. He looked down at his watch. _4am. _"Oh, of course. I'll just wait 'till morning, then."

Mycroft frowned. He leaned down to pick up a coat from the seat next to him. John recognized it as Sherlock's second best. Mycroft pulled a piece of paper from it's pocket. "I had Mrs. Hudson send it back with Lestrade. He always kept items of importance in here." He held the folded paper out to John, who took it, bewildered. "It is addressed to you."

John looked down at the letter in his hand. He cleared his throat. "Have you read it?" Mycroft shook his head.

_Unlike you, Mycroft._

"Are you going to read it now?"

"Anything in it he could tell me himself in the morning."

"Doctor Watson...I'm afraid that's not possible."

John switched his route and made for the exit. "I think I might go home, check on Mrs. Hudson. I'll come back at visiting hours-"

"John." It was the use of his first name that stopped the Doctor. He could not look at Mycroft, though. "You know what I am about to say."

"No, I don't. You'll have to tell me."

"Sherlock...is dead."

And immediately, John grinned. He turned around.

_Good plan, Holmes. Who knows who could be watching the hospital._

"Yes. Yes, absolutely. So...shall I go to the morgue, then? To identify the body?"

Mycroft's frown grew more intense. "That won't be necessary. I've already done so."

"Well, then, where has the body been moved to?"

"It hasn't. It's to be cremated in the morning."

John had stopped smiling by now. "Mycroft...?" No answer. "Mycroft." Sherlock's brother had never looked older to John than in that moment. "He's not dead. Not really."

"It pains me to inform you that he...is."

"Yeah, but I think we both know that's not quite true, don't, we?" John whispered, moving in close. Mycroft's face answered him. "You really believe this, don't you? You really think-?" And then, in his hand, a clue.

_Smarty-pants bastard._

John sat in the nearest seat, unfolding Sherlock's note. He read it once, and then again. Minutes passed. He looked up at Mycroft. "No...it's in here. I know it's in here. I'm...I'm looking right it. I'm just...not seeing."

_Not observing._

"Doctor Watson, I'm so sorry."

"I want to see him." John stood up.

"No, John, you don't." Again, first name. It wasn't that John couldn't see Sherlock, it was that he couldn't want to.

"You're sure it's him?"

"Positive."

"You were...thorough."

"Completely."

"Do you even care?" John regretted his words immediately after spouting them. He would have apologized, but Mycroft had already begun to respond.

"Doctor Watson, I raised my brother from the time I was in college and he was barely a young man entering middle school. So, trust me when I tell you: I do care."

_I'm so sorry, Mycroft._

He should have said it out loud.

And Mycroft left John there, standing in disbelief, alone in the waiting room. And Sherlock Holmes was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Or was he?

"We're here," Mycroft's driver told him when they were well inside the military base. Mycroft let himself out and went through the multiple security checks necessary to get him into the medical lab. One more swipe, one more door, and there he was at his brother's bedside. Sherlock's eyes were narrowly open, and he had never looked more exhausted.

_Thank Christ you're alive._

"You've woken up, I see."

"Does John-?"

"He has your letter."

"Right."

Sherlock's body was covered in stitches and bandages. Countless bones had been broken by the fall, and he had barely survived...but he did survive. He would be fully healed before too, too long.

"Where do you think you'll go?"

"I had considered a tour through South America, I've not spent much time on that side of the world."

"That sounds like a proper start."

"Of course," Sherlock sighed, "I had also considered meeting up with The Adler Woman, but her's is a life of scandal, and I think I am to seek out a more hush-hush existence for the time being."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, good decision. And anyway, you should not be able to find her."

"Why? Because she's dead?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock's expression told him everything. "You know, I suspected that you had saved her, I just couldn't see how."

"Then clearly, Mycroft, you weren't looking hard enough."

Mycroft studied Sherlock's face, and even with the good humour, he could not see an ounce of the passion that used to take residence there.

"You were able to make the necessary additions to my will?"

"Yes...221B Baker Street will remain fully paid for as long as Mrs. Hudson is to reside beneath it. But, do you really think John will want to stay there?"

"Perhaps not, but it must always be open to him, in any way he sees fit. Always, Mycroft."

"Indeed."

"And besides, perhaps Mrs. Hudson will be relieved not to have lodgers to look after."

_You don't think she'll find it lonely?_

"Yes, and the dog: John's, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Everything else was already accounted for."

"Yes. Good."

Mycroft eyed his little brother. It appeared that he was ready to have some more rest.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do? Any other letters or words to pass along?"

"No. I'm sure John will know just what to say."

"There's nothing else, then?"

"One thing: is there to be a funeral?"

Mycroft nodded. "Wednesday afternoon. Why?"

"Do not attend." Mycroft opened his mouth to enquire, but was instantly cut off. "If I had really died, would you?"

"No. No, I suppose not. Don't take offence."

"I do not. It would not be safe for you to attend, and _I_ would expect you not to. John recognizes that."

"Will it be safe for him to attend, do you think?"

"Oh, it would be safe for anyone. What's the harm? It's not like I'm around to cause trouble."

_ Again, the humour, but without the spark._

Mycroft turned to leave, but before swiping his identification card, he looked to his brother.

"I am only trying to do what is best, Sherlock."

_I am only trying to protect you._

"Yes, of course. You made the right choice-" Sherlock never met his brother's eye. "-for me. For John. For everyone. It is the...practical...choice."

And on that note, Mycroft left. On his way back to the limousine he was stopped by one of Sherlock's doctors, a middle-aged brunette woman with a sad smile.

"He will be alright, Mycroft. He should heal nicely in a short while. He'll survive this."

"Yes, I know," Mycroft answered her. "Unfortunately, it is not his life I am worried about."

_It is his heart._


	3. Chapter 3

My dear Watson, I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Hudson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes

And that was all she wrote. _He wrote. _That was the last that he would ever write, and as John stared at it looking for some twinkle of hope that there was a clue hidden within those words, he could feel his entire world crashing down around him.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in that waiting room. A few people had sauntered in and out, and a few of the nurses were giving him sad looks, but time never seemed to move forward. He was just there, in that moment, in that death. The death of Sherlock Holmes. By habit, not necessity, John looked down at his watch. _9am. God, that long?_

John left the hospital and began his walk home. 221B Baker street wasn't so far away, and a walk seemed like a good way to clear the mind. John recognized that taking a stroll through London with Moriarty and his goons on the loose probably wasn't his best idea, but did it really matter? Sherlock was dead, the mystery was all out in the open, and Moriarty could do his damage elsewhere.

That was the worst thing, the worst part of it all. Sherlock had died truly believing that he had defeated his nemesis, and while that was a possibility, it was also possible that Moriarty had been saved after the fall as well. It would explain the missing body. Or, perhaps he had been killed. That would still leave his gang about, but would they really work so hard seeking revenge for their own fallen leader? Was Watson to seek revenge for his fallen friend?

Halfway home, he looked down a street to see Greg Lestrade overseeing what looked like a search party. John stopped in his tracks, not knowing whether or not he should call out to the Detective Inspector. He didn't have to, though, because Lestrade noticed John himself, and began making his way to the Doctor. He paused a few feet away, hands in his pockets. They both sighed, practically in unison.

"I heard that Mycroft's taking care of the funeral arrangements."

"Oh?" This was news to John. "When?"

"You haven't checked your phone, then?" John's brow furrowed, and he realized that his cell had been set on silent since the night before. "It's tomorrow after lunch. At the courthouse. Oddly."

"Seems the only proper place." John cleared his throat. "I'll be on my way home, then."

"Care for some company?"

"No. No...I think I'll do alright on my own." A sad smile, and John left.

Mrs. Hudson met him at the door of the apartment. She had clearly been sobbing all morning, but John didn't want to point it out. He simply walked through the door and opened his arms to the old woman, holding her as she cried into his chest. His face remained still and calm. Statuesque, even, perhaps. What good was it for someone else to cry? Eventually, Mrs. Hudson calmed herself and told him she could use a good nap.

"You should do the same," she said to him. John nodded his agreement as she went back to her quarters. He looked at the staircase ahead of him. _17 steps. _Upstairs was the apartment that he and Sherlock had shared for more time than he had even realized, and now it would only be his. His and the dog. How long was it appropriate to wait before seeking out a new flatmate?

_Dammit, John. What an awful thought._

John practically jogged up the stairs. The first few steps were perfectly fine, until-

"GOD!-Damn. DAMN!"

_Damn. My leg._

Mrs. Hudson came running to John, him having fallen up the stairs. His leg had completely given out. He tried to stand on it, to make it up the stairs on his own, but it was no use. His injury had returned.


	4. Chapter 4

And the years went by. Sometimes in slow motion, mostly in fast forward, but they passed. John's life passed in little snippets as his weakened form began to grow strong once again.

That cane, that cane he thought he would never need again.

The funeral, in a hall filled with people but empty of love.

The apartment. Lonely, empty, much neater than it used to be, even with the dog.

Mrs. Hudson's sad eyes, always watching, always worrying.

Mycroft's calls, now and then, asking if he needed anything.

Sitting in the apartment, alone at his laptop, trying to type up the final story. The Reichenbach Fall, he finally decided to call it. And as John typed, he poured all of his emotion into that one final reminder to the world that Sherlock Holmes was capable of doing something incredible. And that he had died to achieve it.

John walked to the post office, and in a box from Mycroft, Sherlock's second-best dressing gown. He hung it on his coat hanger, where it had always been.

Sobbing, just once, just a few months after the event. Throwing his cane in anger. Having to crawl to it in order to stand up.

A year later, John sauntered down the street, on his way to the bank to pick up the unnecessary cheques from Mycroft, paying Sherlock's rent. A kind gesture, but John would always send them back. He knew the same cheque would be sent to Mrs. Hudson afterwards, anyway. But, on his way to the post office, he is intercepted by a middle-aged thief, who takes the money and runs off. And John, his apathy turning to fury, chases after him, catches him, takes him into Lestrade and realizes that he ran the entire way on his own. Cane be damned.

Months after that, John meets a girl named Mary.

John leaves 221B Baker street. He and Mary move into a small townhouse in Kensington. He visits Mrs. Hudson once a month. Mycroft hardly calls.

Two years have passed. John goes to Baker street, into the apartment that Mycroft is still paying for. The phone rings. Lestrade needs a second opinion. _How did he know I was here?_

Two and half years gone by, they have solved countless London cases, saving the world one criminal mastermind at a time. But never the way Sherlock did. They could never observe quite so perfectly, so accurately.

Finally, three years had passed. Three years without Sherlock Holmes, and John had job, a fiance and a life to call his own. A life fulfilled with adventure and happiness, without worry of danger just ahead. John was glad for his life.

The case of Ronald Adair was one that Sherlock would have taken quite an interest in. A gambler, a murder-all the fixings of a good crime scene. John and Lestrade both attended the court case, and as it let out, they had a nice chat.

"Something to look into, you think?" Lestrade asked the Doctor.

"I was thinking we could check the apartment, if you're allowed in on it. Might be something we could make out of all it. See what we could do."

"Right." Lestrade chuckled. "Who knows, maybe Adair had an old record from a night-club owner whose taste in music should have been clear cause for a murder."

John laughed at the good-natured joke as they descended the steps of the courthouse. On his way down, he bumped shoulders with a man in a knit-beanie, who dropped his own collection of what appeared to be Bibles. John picked up a few and handed them to the man, who scoffed as he ran off.

"He's in a mood," Lestrade pointed out about the man, but John had barely noticed the ordeal, his mind having been reminded of the deductive methods of an old friend. "Well, I'd best be off, and you'd better get home to Mary, hadn't you?"

"S'pose so." The two men shook hands and make their way home. John took a long route, stopping by Mrs. Hudson's to check in, as he occasionally did. She wasn't in, which seemed strange to John at that time of day, but nothing seemed out of place. He hailed a cab and arrived home.

Mary greeted him in the foyer, kissed him square on the lips and asked how his day was.

"It was quite interesting, I think that Greg and I have quite the case at the moment," John informed her, never taking his hand off her waist. When John and Mary were together, he always held her in some way, as if she was about to float away. His therapist would have told him he was clinging too tightly, but then, he hadn't seen a therapist in years.

"Darling, there's a man here. He says you bumped into him earlier?" John was confused.

"Yes...but how could he know where I live?"

"He seems a good enough sort...perhaps a little religious. He's in your office." John kissed her forehead and made his way to the study, where the man in the beanie was petting his dog. Gladstone seemed quite thrilled with the arrangement.

"He doesn't usually take so well to strangers," John began, looking at the man's back. He was in a pain black suit jacket and a pair of blue jeans. If John were making deductions about him, he would have assumed by his thin frame and only partially formal attire that this man was homeless, but what of the Bibles? "Mary and I aren't particularly religious, so if you're looking for souls to save, you may have come to the wrong place." No response. Gladstone was practically drooling-in fact, he was. John turned to his bookcase. "Of course, even if we were religious, I do own a Bible, so we need not buy a second-" John turned back to the stranger, but when he did, the stranger was no longer there. He had taken off the tight hat and coat, and there in front of John Watson was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, dressed in blue jeans.

John fainted. There was no other way to respond.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke with the taste of brandy on his lips. He was laying on his small couch. His first instinct was to call out, to scream for Mary to escape the house as fast as she could. He must have been attacked by the homeless Bible seller...but then, how would that explain the brandy? Or...why Sherlock Holmes was hovering over him, a stern expression on his face.

"My dear friend, I'm so sorry. I had only a small suspicion that you would react so intensely, but I did not plan well enough for the possibility. Don't worry, you didn't hit your head on the way down, thank goodness."

"This...this can't be," John muttered, wide-awake. More awake, possibly, than he'd ever been. "You died. For three years, Sherlock, _you were dead."_

"Yes...funny thing about death, you see, is that it is only so easy to accomplish when you have actually refrained from living."

John sat up, with some difficulty, so he clung onto Sherlock's arm for support. Once he was up, he did not let go, for he couldn't help but marvel at how skinny his friend had become. Sherlock didn't discourage him from holding on.

"Swear you're not a ghost?"

"God, John, after all you've seen, you still believe in ghosts."

John grinned. "That's a _no_, then." He was still clutching that bony arm. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Are you sure you're in a right mind to hear this? You did just faint, after all."

"I'm fine. I'm...where have you been."

Sherlock stood and pulled up a chair to sit opposite of John. Then, he told John everything, everywhere he'd been, everything he'd done. He explained how Mycroft got him out of the hospital to one elsewhere, how he escaped London and stayed under the radar in various countries for three years. It all seemed quite ridiculous, but, as John had learned, never underestimate the Holmes boys.

"And now you're back in London? Why?"

"There are...matters...to attend to. Matters with which I require your help."

It was too vague an answer. Even after all this time, John knew better than to take that statement at face value. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

Sherlock sighed. "You, yes. And Mary. I thought if you were already going to be in danger, I may as well let you in on my being alive as well. Especially considering the two dangers are coming from the same culprit."

"Moriarty."

"No. His henchman, Moran. He knows I'm alive, and I fear he intended to bring me into the city by threatening you. After all, you were about to figure out his latest plot."

"Which plot is that?"

"The murder of Ronald Adair."

_Of course._

"And Moriarty?"

Sherlock looked a little surprised. "Dead, John. Didn't you know?"

A weight was lifted off John in that moment that he thought he would never leave behind. It seemed unnecessary, now that Sherlock was, in fact, alive, but the certainty that Sherlock had defeated Moriarty in the end was comforting to John.

"Good. So, Moran, is he who we're setting out to find?"

"You'll come with me tonight?"

"When you like and where you like."

Sherlock had a proud look on his face. John peered at him, still taking in the sight before him. That dark, curly hair, tall posture, sharp cheekbones. It really was the great detective.

"John...are you crying?"

John's eyes widened. "What? Erm...no..." He wiped at his cheeks, checking for tears. There were none. "No...I just, um...I fainted."

"Right."

"Yeah. You know...red nose...watering eyes. It's from the...fainting."

"Yes."

"I know. I'm a doctor."

"Quite right. Anyway, we should get an early start. I'd perhaps like to change before setting out on our case. Mrs. Hudson has already sent my old clothes to your new home-lovely, by the way-but-"

"Mrs. Hudson? She already knows?" It explained her earlier absence from Baker street.

"Oh yes. I went to make the proper arrangements with her this morning. I dare say, she reacted with a little less shock than you did. Of course, she's always been superstitious, she could have simply believed me to be a spirit. Anyway, I instructed her to stay out of 221B, as it will not be the safest of places for her tonight."

John was about to respond incredulously, but at that moment, Mary came in with a package.

"John, love, is this for-" she stopped in the doorway. Sherlock stood and took the package directly from her hands.

"Thanks very much, Mary," he said to her.

John stood up, taking a moment to get his footing back, and went to his fiance. "Me and my old friend are going to go out tonight, does that bother you?"

Mary gave John a look as if to ask if everything was actually alright. He gave her a reassuring smile and she left the two men, bewildered. Sherlock changed into his old clothes and he and John started out the door. In the foyer, though, Sherlock seemed to realize something.

"She never sent along my coat."

John swallowed. He was a little embarrassed to do it, but he opened up the nearby closet and reached in, pulling out the coat Mycroft had left with him. Sherlock looked like he wanted to make note of it's place of honour, but he kept his mouth shut, the corners of it turning up in thanks. He put on the coat.

"Only my second-best dressing coat. The first is, of course, wrecked being repair."

"I'll bet."

Sherlock put his hands into the pockets, feeling his way around the coat. He pulled a piece of paper from the right pocket. John snatched it out of his hands before he could even look at it, and put Sherlock's letter into his own pocket, trying to seem natural. Again, he know that Sherlock must have recognized the note, but he did not say anything to point it out.

They set out of the townhouse and hailed a cab. It was, as it were, just like old times.


	6. Chapter 6

"Where are we headed?" John asked Sherlock as the two men got out of the cab, Sherlock handing the cabby some cash and neglecting to leave a tip (as he always had).

Sherlock didn't respond, but he led John up the fire escape of the building they had stopped in front of and broke into the second floor apartment. "It's alright," he told John, "It is abandoned. We are only here for the view."

John moved through the apartment towards the window, and from it he could see none other than the second floor of 221B Baker street. "Sherlock, it's our old apartment!"

"Yes. Notice anything different?"

John squinted across the street into the other building, and looked into their old living room. Nothing seemed strange about it, apart from the fact that it was exactly the same as when he had-but wait. No, it wasn't.

"You've re-arranged everything. Your skull, for instance." He looked onto the coffee table. "The newspapers..." he couldn't see clearly, but he thought he recognized the cover, "...they're from this morning."

"Well done, John!" Sherlock practically cried out at him. "It seems your years of practice have done you some good. You're finally observing."

John couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself. "He'll think you're in there."

"Precisely. He's close, waiting to see my through the window so they can make their move."

"Where is he?"

"Could be in this room. But likely outside, I don't know how resourceful Moran is at breaking into apartments.

"And what are we to do?"

"Why, John! We're to catch him."

John scoffed. "And how do you suppose we do that? Have you got a gun?"

Sherlock had a glow in his eyes. "Not exactly. Come on, let's go outside."

It was already dark, and John was wearing of leaving the apartment through the front door. Depending on how intently Moran was watching 221B, he could see them coming from behind him and shoot directly their way. But, it appeared that Sherlock was not being restless, and he once he opened the front door he crouched down into the doorway, pulling John down with him. Moran was literally feet in front of them, but the sounds of the street had blocked out the noise from the door and the darkness kept them out of sight even when he peeked behind himself. Sherlock held his hand over John's mouth to keep him from asking all the things that he knew were on his mind.

And then, a gunshot. A bird had landed on the windowsill of 221B and Moran had shot at it, breaking the window and making the man quite angry. Swearing, he turned around and was making his way to the apartment door where Sherlock and John were sitting. John's heart beat like wild, and he heard a gun cocking-_had Sherlock brought a gun?-_and then another shot. Moran clutched at his kneecap and fell down to the ground. Lestrade appeared and confiscated his weapon, having two other inspectors handcuff the man and take him to a police car. Sherlock and John were still in the doorway, neither of them pointing out where they were, watching Lestrade start typing into his phone. It wasn't until John could see Sherlock's cellular phone light up that Lestrade turned to the light warily, and the two men stood in response.

"It really_ is_ you, then?" Lestrade asked, regardless of the fact that he was looking Sherlock Holmes straight in the face. John realized just how silly he must have seemed earlier.

"You texted him?" John asked.

"Yes. I thought we could use a little firepower, since you hadn't thought to bring any."

"Actually..." John reached into the back of his dress pants, and pulled out his own concealed weapon. "I forgot I'd brought it. Old habits...I guess..." The look on Sherlock's face told John that he _had _known all along that John had brought a gun, but that he would forget having done it. It was just his old habit of carrying one when he and Sherlock were on a case, but not when he'd went with Lestrade all those times.

_Brilliant man._

"It's good to see you back in London, sir," Lestrade broke them out of the moment and reached his hand out to Sherlock, who took it gladly.

"I see you and Watson have done some good work here."

"Well, we had a lot to live up to."

"Yes...but you handled it all _fairly_ well."

Lestrade smirked, amused. John was a little embarrassed: why hadn't anyone else fainted at the sight of a dead man yet? Was it just him?

The reunion ended and the time came to head home. John asked Sherlock where he would be staying that night, and Sherlock told him that he would simply go "home." Home, of course, being the Baker street apartment. But instead of simply crossing the street, he insisted upon accompanying John back to Kensington, to John's disapproval. When they reached the townhouse, Sherlock walked John to his steps.

"You're sure you won't stay here tonight? I would feel much better off about it."

"No...besides, who will look after Mrs. Hudson?"

_True enough._

"It will be strange there, without you in the next room," Sherlock told him, seeming a little out-of-character.

"You get used to it."

Silence.

"Well, goodnight, John. We will speak in the morning?"

"Yeah. Yes, alright." He walked up the steps to his doorway, but turned back just as he put the key into the lock. "Wait, Sherlock-" Sherlock had not stopped watching him. John cleared his throat, as he always did when searching for the right words. "There is just...one thing." John descended the steps again and approached Sherlock. He placed his hands on the slimmer-than-ever man's arms and awkwardly reached around him, one arm around Sherlock's neck and the other around his back. He rested his forehead on the taller man's shoulder. Sherlock said nothing, but rested his free hand on John's back for a moment. John was the one to pull out of the hug first, patting Sherlock's arms bizarrely and pursing his lips in slight embarrassment. Sherlock frowned.

"John...you must understand why I-"

"I know."

"You couldn't have known. I needed you to write it. To let everyone think that I was truly finished. I needed you to believe it, otherwise they never would."

"You give my writing a lot of credit."

"You write with more sentimentality than is necessary-" John scoffed, "-but that sentimental drivel is what makes it powerful. That is what they read. Not the cases."

"Right, then."

The two men stood together, not meeting each others' eyes.

"I am so sorry John. Really, I am."

"S'alright," John responded. "Just don't do it again," he added, trying to be humourous. He grinned at Sherlock for a moment and finally ascended the steps to his apartment. He unlocked his door and turned the knob, but before fully opening it he turned back for one last thing. "And...if you do decide to do it again-" Sherlock was still listening, "-maybe just let me in on it next time, alright?" Sherlock nodded. _Promised._

John entered his apartment and made his way to the living room, where Mary was watching Sherlock Holmes hail a cab from the windowpane. He stood next to her, placing a hand around her waist and watched with her to make sure he was not drugged by the cabbie or something else of that sort. There had been already been enough adventure that night, after all. The cab drove away, and the two lovers were left looking out at the empty street. John pushed his other hand into his pocket, and realized that Sherlock's letter was no longer there. It must have fallen out...or, perhaps, Sherlock had taken it. It didn't seem to matter much any more.

"John, was that Sherlock Holmes?"

"All indications point to yes. Absolutely."

"Let him know you're mine, won't you?"

John chuckled, looking at the beautiful girl next to him. "Alright," he agreed.

"Well..." She seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, but then finished: "I suppose I wouldn't mind sharing you...just a little."

John kissed his fiance, perfectly happy.

* * *

><p>I hope you all liked this story! Let me know what you think by leaving me a little review!<p>

Also, if you're interesting in reading the real story upon which this one is primarily based, go check out The Adventure of the Empty House. It's quite lovely.


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